


Forgiveness

by viajeramyra



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/pseuds/viajeramyra
Summary: His body ached, begged, for a spot next to Andrés on the little bed. His heart screamed, ready to allow every tear to flow from his eyes, only to be appeased by taking the man in his arms. It’d been too many years now, but Martín would never forget the feeling of his chin tucked on Andrés' head, his fingers stroking his lover’s hair, cradling him through the dead of night.--Or the one where Andrés and Martín were married before Andrés left for the Mint. This is their reunion in the Bank.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ele_amato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ele_amato/gifts), [colorfulcharades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulcharades/gifts), [liNipote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liNipote/gifts).



> Hello, Berlermo Loves. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day darlings. My health hasn't been great, and between writing for DinCobb (The Mandalorian, check it out if you haven't yet and come say hello to me on AO3: another wayward cowgirl) and uni, I've not had much time for these boys. But, I had a little treat I wanted to share and thank you all for your love and support. Berlermo got me back into writing after 4 years, and I will always cherish that. 
> 
> Te quiero.

“Will you just _lie down_!" Martín snapped at the rustling of the thin, papery sheets they’d brought in the Bank for their makeshift infirmary. It stopped as quickly as it came, but a weak, raspy whimper followed his command. Immediately, Martín stopped sorting through the various items inside the first aid kit, a knot lodged in his throat. It bobbled, dry and coarse as the sound plagued his heart. He turned, slowly, regret and shame filling him with the first glance he took of Andrés. His hands were folded together over his stomach, eyes glued to a fixed point on the ceiling above him. Martín didn’t miss the quiver of his lips or the sudden silence between them and he crossed the room in just a few short steps. 

“Andrés,” he began, whispering the man’s name with all the tenderness his lips could muster. “Andrés, I’m sorry.” 

“You’re just trying to play doctor and I’m afraid I’m not an ideal patient,” he replied, so distant and different from the man Martín used to know. 

Martín’s hand flirted with the edge of the table, only inches from Andrés’ arm. His body ached, _begged_ , for a spot next to Andrés on the little bed. His heart screamed, ready to allow every tear to flow from his eyes, only to be appeased by taking the man in his arms. It’d been too many years now, but Martín would never forget the feeling of his chin tucked on Andrés' head, his fingers stroking his lover’s hair, cradling him through the dead of night. His thumb reached just far enough to soothe little circles on Andrés’ elbow. 

Unsurprisingly, Andrés flinched at his touch with a sharp gasp that tore at the sorrow nestled in Martín’s heart. He ripped his hand away, ready to take a step back, one right after the next, until he found someone else in this building to care for Andrés. Perhaps, just perhaps, Tokio or Bogotá might be persuaded to care for more than one patient. At least then, Martín could turn his attention back to the team and the plan. He would get them out of here, after all. He wouldn’t allow Andrés to live another moment filled with fear or worry or concern. 

“Martín,” came Andrés’ plea. The simple word made his friend’s body choke from the sobs that followed, but Martín was quick to help prop him up. He rubbed circles on the man’s back, coaxing him until easier breaths were taken once again. “Martín. Martín. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he replied. 

“I should have shown up at your door myself. Or, I could’ve given you what you wanted. I didn’t— you shouldn’t be here risking your life to get me back.” 

“What I wanted?” 

“You feel obligated to be here because I’m… well I’m still your husband,” he chuckled, before his lips tied together in a tight grin. 

The divorce papers. The unused plane ticket to Palawan. The letter. All three were tucked away in the small backpack Martín brought with him. The way Andrés mentioned his unsigned signature line, as though such cruel irony and heavy guilt, made him shake his head. One too many times, Martín had been tempted to burn the evidence of his own signature, of his shame. He’d been too quick to let go, he didn’t fight for them in equal measure. He _chose_ to surrender Andrés, after far too many years of loving him in the dark. His actions, not Andrés’, not even Sergio’s, were what broke him with the news of his husband’s death. He should’ve been there. He should’ve gotten Andrés out. Andrés shouldn’t have died thinking Martín might not be waiting for a blissful reunion in paradise. 

“No one forced me to be here,” Martin said, taking a step back from the table. 

“I know you, Martín. More importantly, I _heard_ what you said to Helsinki. I know your regret.” 

“That’s not— no.” 

Martín marched back, knocking a few of the packages of gauze from the little table in his search. Quickly, he found the little black bag holding the few possessions he brought with him to the Bank. His hands scrambled around for the little silver lighter, one of many wedding gifts bearing his engraved initials. Regrettably, it was the only one he could not bring himself to part with when all was said and done. It didn’t matter, not at the moment. It was the only one he needed after all. 

“I fucked up. I let you go,” Martín argued, as he made his way back to Andrés’ side. He held up the envelope, before resting the lighter on the table. “You sent this to me and every night of the heist I knew. I knew I should leave those papers in Palermo and take the ticket and run to you. _And then you died_ ,” his voice wobbled on the words, the weight of all his pain flooding through every vein. He refused to cry, refused to waste another moment lost in his shame, in his sorrow. 

“I… you don’t have to,” Andrés interrupted. He held his head up high, the damned pride Martín loved so much staring back at him. They could argue this point, back and forth, until every demon in his beloved’s head believes what Martín had to say. But, for now, he listened. He wouldn’t interrupt, wouldn’t push without allowing Andrés to grieve and feel all that had happened, all that they’d lost. “You don’t have to pretend because you feel sorry for me.” 

“I’ve never done anything to pity you.” 

“Then give me a damned pen and I’ll let you go.” 

“No,” he replied, finally removing the papers from the envelope. “Listen to me, Andrés. I _grieved_ for you. I prayed and I cursed and I wished for nothing more for you to come back to me. When I thought all had been lost, when I thought perhaps I should join you instead, I got my damned second chance. And I’m not letting you go again.” 

The lighter flicked in his hand and met the corner of the divorce papers. It scorched, turning the white paper to charcoal as it ate away at every line. Martín’s gaze never left Andrés, who finally reached out and took his hand. Just as the papers burned and they met with such simple contact, the heaviness of the last three years began to lift between them. As the page burned at the other end, Martín disposed of them in the small bowl of water next to Andrés' bed. 

It took mere seconds for both of Martín’s hands to find Andrés’ face. He pushed the mess of hairs away from his husband’s forehead before they met with a simple touch. Their noses bumped together, something light and warm and familiar coursing through Martín’s body. His heartbeat slower, the adrenaline finally vacating for the first time since Sergio’s arrival. All that existed now was him and Andrés. The other man’s hand circled his wrist, holding on loosely; Andrés’ other hand pulled on Martín’s jumpsuit, fingers latched on. 

“Te quiero, Martín.” 

“Yo también te quiero, más que nada en el mundo mi vida,” he whispered, finally closing the remaining distance between them.


End file.
